Llythyrau Goronwy Owen/Llythyr 9
| ← Llythyr 8 | Llythyrau Goronwy Owen golygwyd gan John Morris-Jones |
Llythyr 10 |
𝔏𝔩𝔶𝔱𝔥𝔶𝔯 9.
At RICHARD MORRIS.
DEAR SIR,
NOTHING could have been more agreeable to me, than to employ my Muse on the subject you sent me; but the more agreeable the Subject, the more I regret the vast inequality of my poor Muse to such an arduous task. If therefore it is not so well executed as I could wish, I readily own it was owing to my incapacity, and not to any defect in our Language. For That is (at least I am willing to believe it is) adequate to the highest strains of Panegyrick, and abundantly fitted for copiousness and significancy, to express the sublimest thoughts in as sublime a manner as any other Language is capable of reaching to. But still we must not think it is priviledged above all other Languages of the Universe, and exempted from all difficulties and restraints. No, it has its own proper Idioms as all others have, and consequently when it is tied down, to keep pace with another, it is straitened and fettered, like David in Saul's armour, and like him had rather it own sling and stone (the meanest of weapons) than be armed Cap à pè in such an armour, as it has not proved or knows nothing of. Thus with regard to Translations, it fares with all Languages, but more especially where there is such a very great (I had almost said, irreconcileable) difference between the properties and Idioms of two Languages, as confessedly there is between our's and the English. This difficulty (great as it is) is again doubly augmented, when our Translation is required to be in Verse. There (besides the usual difficulty of making what is a beautiful thought in the one appear like common sense in the other) we are tied to find out, and range in order, letters and Syllables: What an exquisite nicety is required in this literal Muster (if I may so call it) you very well know, so that it is sufficient for me only to mention it. Perhaps it were wished that the Rules of Poetry in our Language were loes nice and accurate: we should then undoubtedly have more writers, but perhaps fewer good ones. I would never wish to see our Poetry reduced to the English Standard, for I can see nothing in That that should entitle it to the Name of Poetry, but only the number of Syllables (which yet is never scrupulously observed) and a choice of uncommon, or if you please Poetick words, and a wretched Rhyme, some times at the end, and in Blank Verse, i.e. the best kind of English Poetry, no Rhyme at all. Milton's Paradise Lost is a Book I read with pleasure, nay with Admiration, and raptures: call it a great, sublime, nervous, &c, &c, or if you please a Divine Work. You will find me ready to subscribe to anything that can be said in praise of it, provided you do not call it Poetry, or, if you do so, that you would likewise allow our Bardd Cwsg to take his seat amongst the Poets. As the English Poetry is too loose, so ours is certainly too much confined and limited, not in the Cynghaneddau, for without them it were no Poetry; but in the length of Verses and Poems too, our longest lines not exceeding Ten Syllables. (Too scanty a space to contain anything Great within the compass of Six or Seven Stanzas, the usual length of our Gwawododyn Byrr) And our longest. Poems not above Sixty or Seventy Lines, the standard Measure of D. ap Gwilym's Cywyddau; which is far from being a length adequate to a Heroic Poem. However, these are, I apprehend, difficulties that will never be remedied; these Models our wise Fore-fathers left us, and these I presume, they judged most agreeable to the genius of our Nation and Language. Some freedom and ease of composition is, and was always observed to be productive of happier effects than an over-rigid aud starched nicety. Thus the Greeks were much less confined as to Quantities than the Romans. And, not to detract from Virgil's deserved praise, I think Homer may be justly allowed to be preferable to him, almost in such a measure and proportion, as an original Writer is [to a] Translator. The Romans had several words even in their own Language, that, by reason of their Quantities, could not possibly be put into Verse. Thus, Horace was at a loss to name the Town Equotutium, and was fain to describe it by a round-about sort of a Paraphrase. And Martial was hard put to it, to name the favourite Boy Earinus, Domitian's valet. But on the contrary, every harsh word sounded smooth in a Greek's mouth: They might sound "Apes, Apes," with an air, tho' they made the same syllable in the same word to be, first, long, and with the same breath, short. This, Martial wittily observes of them, and at the same time. as wittily laments the over-rigid severity of his own Country Muses:—
"Nobis non licet esse tam disertis
Musas qui colimus severiores."
But with all their severity, if Martial had been acquainted with the obstinate coy, and incompliant temper of our British Awen, he would certainly have taken the Roman Muses for a bevy of City Courtezans. Besides, our Muse, by long disuse has almost forgot to converse with Princes, at least in the mode and language of the present times. No wonder then that my performance should fall short of the pattern given me; if I have kept the sense of my Original, and dressed it in true (tho' homely) language, I hope it may be thought sufficient. If this manner of address is already customary, I commend it; and will, if desired, provide something better, if I live, against next. year. Let me know whether such an address might not be agreeable on the Prince's Birth—day. I think I could (with a little rubbing over) get the rust off my Latin Muse on such an Occasion—But Cantabs have it fresh and fresh.
Eich rhwymedig Wasanaethwr
GRONWY DDU GYNT O Fôn.